


Native Son

by ishafel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-12
Updated: 2011-03-12
Packaged: 2017-10-16 21:35:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishafel/pseuds/ishafel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coming home from exile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Native Son

Draco comes back to England three years after the war, and Azkaban Prison pulls at him the way a magnet would. He has not seen his father since the Aurors took him when Draco was at school. He has forgotten his father's face, forsaken his father's cause, forfeited his inheritance, and sometimes he wants nothing more than to take back the past. What would it have cost him, after all, to fight at his father's side? What would it have cost him that he had not lost anyway?

He takes the ferry to Azkaban on an icy, misty morning. He has been too long away, and his blood has grown thin; he wrapped himself in coats and sweaters but he still shivers. Disembarking, he stumbles on the damp boards of the dock and almost falls, but he does not cry. Not then. He follows the other visitors under the vast archway into the sprawling labyrinth of passages. This is the place his aunt Bellatrix and his grandfather Arcturus died; his mother miscarried a child in a dark cell here; his father has not seen the sun in seven years. A part of Draco is afraid, crossing the threshold, that they will find a reason to take him a prisoner.

He has the mark on his arm, as they all did. He is as guilty as they ever were. "Who do you want?" the guard demands.

"Lucius Malfoy," he answers. It is the first time he can remember saying his father's name since the war.

"Malfoy," the guard repeats. He runs a finger down a list three feet long. A quarter of the wizarding population-a quarter of those who survived the war-is in Azkaban. "Abandon all hope ye who enter here."

"Excuse me?" But Draco knows he heard the man right. It only remains to find out what he meant by it.

"Password. Put out your hand." After a moment Draco does so, a little reluctantly. The man touches his palm lightly with a wand-tip and a small silver phoenix shines on his skin. "Check your wand on the left. The prisoner will be waiting for you in room sixteen."

"Thank you," Draco says, aware that it sounds insincere and snotty, but not caring. He checks his wand, and wonders if he'll ever get it back. The phoenix on his hand glows like a beacon. If he had followed it-if his father had followed it-how different things would be. The hallway is lined with numbered doors, carved out of the rock. The walls are damp beneath his fingers.

He stops outside the sixteenth door. His heart pounds in his ears. He loved his father once, almost as much as he hated him. When he was four his father bought him his first broomstick, and when he was seven his father taught him things about sex he had not thought to ask, and when he was fifteen his mother sold him to the Dark Lord in his father's place. He is a coward but he is not incapable of courage. He opens the door and goes in.

Seven years is a lifetime-twenty-two looking back at fifteen. Seven years is a heartbeat-forty-eight looking back at forty-one. Impossible to tell, in the shadows of Azkaban, how much his father has really changed. There is a table, two chairs, a guard in one corner. Lucius Malfoy sits and waits, and Draco wonders how often he has waited in vain. Has he had visitors, all these long years of his imprisonment? Did Narcissa come to see him before she died? Did they let him watch when Bellatrix was executed? Has he wondered why Draco did not come, or does he know that Draco spent the years since the war ended far away on an island with a burning sun and beautiful native boys?

"Father," Draco says, and sits. "You look well." And he does, though he is paler and thinner; the dark plain robes of a prisoner suit him. He is neatly shaved and his long fair hair has been drawn back and tied with a leather thong. He still wears the Malfoy rings, incongruous against his ascetic's garb. He looks no older, or perhaps Draco is not remembering his face correctly, or perhaps it is only the light that smoothes away the lines that should bracket his eyes and mouth.

"Son," Lucius answers, and the word is heavy with irony. Draco has never been a son to him. A lover, yes; a disappointment always. But not a son. "Leave us." Without a word, the guard goes. So. Even in Azkaban a Malfoy is a Malfoy.

"Why are you here?" Lucius asks.

It is a question for which Draco has no answer. "I wanted to see how you were," he says finally. "If you needed anything."

Lucius's mouth twists. "I have everything a man could want," he replies. "Everything but my freedom."

The ferry runs every hour on the hour. If Draco hurries he can be on the next one. He stands up to go, and Lucius grabs his wrist. "There is one thing you can do for me," he says, and pushes Draco to his knees. "It will not take very long."

Draco could get away. He is younger, stronger, fitter and faster. He has only to raise his voice to bring a guard. Even Lucius would not dare to force him, not in Azkaban. He stays on his knees. A part of him is glad that his father wants something from him he can give.

Lucius does not even take off his robes, only unbuttons them and unlaces his trousers. His penis seems smaller than it once was, only because Draco himself has grown. He is very clean. Draco closes his eyes and opens his mouth. It is not so different from the way he spent the war.

The first time he did this he was seven and it seemed momentous, a sin no God could forgive him. He is older now and he has sucked a thousand cocks. It is still momentous, still unforgivable. This is his father; this is the man who gave him life. Lucius is as careless, fucking his throat, as any man with a whore. Neither family nor sin figures largely in his view of the world. Draco is property to him, has only ever been a convenience-and later an inconvenience-to be used when possible and disregarded when necessary.

The guard bangs on the door. "Two minutes," he calls, and Draco chokes a little and gags.

"For fuck's sake," Lucius says, and continues to thrust with the regularity of a metronome. It clearly hasn't been seven years since the last time he did this; from his level of excitement Draco guesses it's been about seven hours. His father has always been resourceful, and would not see prison as a reason to deprive himself. "Be sure and swallow," Lucius adds, like Draco has planned to make the trip home from Azkaban with come drying on his chin.

Draco opens his eyes just in time to see Lucius come. For a moment he loses all of that efficiency, all the self-control that failed only when Muggle rights were mentioned, and his face reddens and his breath quickens. And then Draco is struggling desperately to swallow, his eyes tearing up from the effort, and Lucius is somehow buttoned up and orderly, hauling him to his feet just seconds before the guard returns.

"Have a nice visit, son?" the man asks, and Draco knows that he knows.

"Sure," he answers, but the word comes out a croak, and all he can think about is escaping to the mainland and the first pub he comes to, and the first drink he'll have to wash this taste away.

"He'll be back next month, Zach," Lucius says with a grin. "You can chat with him then."


End file.
